Double Failure

A friend of mine broke his arm for the second time this weekend. It had just healed as well. He had had metal plates put it and taken out and went through a massive ordeal to get it back to near-healthy working order. Then, after playing some flag football, his arm broke again. Back to square one.

Doing long and arduous tasks sucks as it is. Doing long and arduous tasks in an attempt to recapture something you already had before is even worse. It must be simply agony to try to recapture it for the second time.

Though the thought of re-breaking an arm is sickening on a number of levels, there is a silver lining to double failure nonetheless.

There is no lesson in winning, only in losing. The Chinese have a proverb that says something similar to that, but we don’t need their ancient legitimacy. It’s pretty self-evident. The question at hand, though, is whether there are lessons to be learned in re-losing.

I believe there is. That lesson is mastery.

When I was sixteen, I took my drivers test three times. I failed it twice. I didn’t fail many tests back then. I was the type of student who paid attention in class, didn’t study and then would take a test. I’m not saying that every test I took was outstanding based on the “no study” method, but I never failed.

So, the first time through, I failed and parallel parking. Okay, perhaps I was rash and arrogant the first time through. I now knew the test. I knew exactly what to do. Failure, lesson learned, try again, right? But, instead, I took it again and failed the parallel parking again.

Sure, I could make excuses on why I failed twice. I was using a mammoth Audi 5000 station wagon instead of the tiny Hondas that were used in driving school. That’s not important, though. After the second failure, I got some trashcans and practiced parallel parking in front of my house all Saturday afternoon until I mastered it.

I passed the third time, but, again, that’s not what is important.

What’s important is I am a frickin’ master at parallel parking now. I know what you’re thinking- yeah right. I know, I know, everyone claims they’re a master at weird pointless things like quarters or Super Mario Brothers. On top of that, everyone thinks they’re a good driver. Independent of all of that bias, I am incredible at parallel parking. Really. And its not arrogance; the skill is actually only the result of being a failure at something relatively simple.

My skill lends itself quite useful in DC and I am quite thankful I have it. And I owe it to one thing and one thing only- double failure. (I know, I know, that’s kind of two things, but you get the point).

The Vent

When I was living in Shanghai, I had very few people to talk to and those I could talk to spoke very poor English. Not communicating with other humans and not sharing ideas was simply exhausting. Finally seeing a few of my foreign friends at the bar late in the day was an incredible relief.

It is an amazing thing that we humans need to vent. Yet, the very nature of the word implies that some sort of unpleasant gas is building up and causing pressure. With a release, we are once again normal.

But it is causing this build up? Why do the talkative need to vent while the mousy remain silent? Why do artists need to paint, write or dance while other find no need to. Why are there complainers, hot heads and vandals? How and why does their anger build up when other people remain cool?

One of best comic strips I have ever seen was a four-panel drawing. His first panel showed a boss yelling at his subordinate. The second showed that subordinate yelling at his wife. The third showed the wife yelling at her child. The final panel showed the child kicking the dog.

Actions beget actions- this is clear, but why is not certain. Misery loves company, but why is not certain.

My theory would be empathy. When I was in middle school, I was treated poorly and, in turn, I treated others poorly. When I listen to music, I feel like playing music. When I was in Shanghai, weird things happened to me and wanted other people to understand and know about those weird things. Conversely, I have found that quiet and inactive people tend to not have many experiences to share and tend to be boring.

New or strong experiences make us feel different and not understood. After an experience, we have the desire to correct that difference. Through communication, art, love and, unfortunately, abuse we “vent” to bring ourselves closer to others.

The Greek Tragedy of Karaoke

When I was in high school, I first tried karaoke and it was awesome. I’m completely serious about this. Bored at seventeen without a punk show to go to that weekend, we hit the Timonium Fair Lanes. In the side bar, there was an old fat DJ and his karaoke machine. We picked the worst late 80’s glam metal and went to work making asses of ourselves.

Karaoke makes a lot of sense. Previously, to sing and perform, you needed a venue, a band or, at least, some talent. It was all too serious and way too inaccessible. Karaoke was the people’s revolution. All of a sudden, anyone could do it. One didn’t even need to know the words. It was fun, it was ridiculous and it was entertaining. Pick the best bad song that rocked and let the good times roll.

After college, I moved to Shanghai to teach English and saw a very different side to Karaoke. I was taken out by the Chinese teachers to a “Ka-Li-OK” establishment. Rather than a large bar crowd, our party was put in a private room. I chose to sing Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive”, but was met with no smiles or laughter. The Chinese watched me with complete stoicism and then politely clapped when I finished. They went on to choose songs without irony, sang the best they could and applauded each other in a similar fashion. I’d like to say the Chinese were unique, but if you’ve ever been to Reef on Tuesday, you’ll also find a similar sort of crowd.

Karaoke without self-degradation and humor was shocking, but there is something far worse. Every night of the week, you can find some Karaoke in DC. Most likely, though, it’ll be exactly the same experience. You’re going to hear “Sweet Caroline,” “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places,” and “Living on a Prayer” sung by a gaggle of drunks. The redundancy to the songs chosen and pack singing makes one want to jab one’s ears out.

What happened? How did Karaoke go from something so accessible and liberating to something so serious and systematic?

The Greeks identified this cycle in all of their epics. The tragic hero is at first strong, intelligent and creative. He succeeds only to gain hubris. Then, the gods smite him. Poor Oedipus, Perseus, Jason, Theseus and Bellerophon.

Hubris ruins everything. It causes directors make bad movies and it causes comedians to stop being funny. Writing becomes trite and self-important and music stops rocking. The arrogant and serious stop questioning, stop evolving and stop having fun. In a sense, they stop living.

With karaoke, no longer are people willing to make fun of themselves. They are either really there to perform seriously or they are so scared of embarrassment that they must go up drunk, in a pack, and sing the least experimental song possible. The gods have smited our hero karaoke for its users’ lack of humility. Now, it’s no longer fun.